by Mark Ellis
Aubrey Belleau slid from the car seat and stepped onto, then off the stool, twirling his miniature silver-knobbed walking stick like a Victorian dandy. He walked with a rolling gait along a flagstone path. “I shan’t be long, Oakshott. Wait in the car, take a nap if you’ve a mind to, that’s a good fellow.”
As he approached the service entrance, he heard the distant bong of Big Ben striking three. Reflexively, he glanced in the direction of the clock tower but because of the fog, he could barely discern its outline.
At the door, he removed the gold stickpin from his scarf and gave it a brief visual inspection. It was tipped with a symbol resembling a caduceus, depicting a pair of serpents coiled around a staff topped by an eye within a pyramid.
Inserting the end of the pin into the keyhole below the doorknob, he probed for a second, then with the click of a solenoid, the door swung silently open. He stepped into a foyer containing janitorial and cleaning supplies and closed the door behind him, the solenoid catching automatically.
Angling his walking stick over a shoulder, Belleau strode into a broad gallery filled with iguanas and tortoises, frozen in attitudes of arrested movement. Masterpieces of the model-maker’s art, the lights of the display cases glittered from their scaled bodies and staring eyes like unfinished gems. Terns and albatrosses hovered overhead, suspended by almost invisible filaments.
He marched swiftly past the reinforced glass tank holding the preserved remains of Archie the squid, the eight meter long example of Architeuthis dux floating in a solution of saline and formaldehyde. He didn’t so much as glance at the thousands of animal carcasses encased within glass. His footsteps echoed and re-echoed within the vast gallery.
Passing beneath an arch, he opened a narrow, nondescript door and entered a big chamber, shaped like the inside of a drum, with oak-paneled walls. High bookshelves rose nearly three meters above the floor. A wheeled library ladder leaned against the far wall.
Bronze busts mounted on marble pedestals occupied the spaces between the shelves, each one haloed by a small light fixture. Belleau’s gaze passed over them one by one, an almost unconscious form of paying homage to Charles Darwin, Sir Walter Raleigh, John Dee, Gerardus Mercator, Christopher Marlowe, Sir Isaac Newton, Herbert Spencer, John Stuart Mill, Sir Richard Owen and Thomas Huxley.
A big round Japanese lantern hung from the center of the conical ceiling where the heavy beams converged, shedding a rich yellow light over a plank table made of bird’s-eye maple. The four men seated around the table were all direct descendants of the men who had founded the School of Night in 1592, and each one was a respected representative of a different scientific discipline, ranging from biochemistry to quantum physics.
“Good evening, classmates,” Belleau said jovially, then as was the custom upon entering the chamber, he recited the school’s motto, quoting from Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour Lost: “Black is the badge of hell /The hue of dungeons and the school of night.”
The other men responded with grunted monosyllables. Andrew Wadley didn’t even try to pat back his yawn. He demanded, “Why must we convene these meetings at three AM? It’s becoming damned inconvenient.”
“Tradition frequently is,” replied Belleau stiffly. “Three AM is the midnight of the human soul, when the blood trickles at low tide and the heart beats at its slowest rhythm. We’re more receptive to new ideas, more suggestible, more inclined to entertain different ways of contemplating and reevaluating our narrow view of reality.”
“It’s also the time when the elderly most often die in their sleep,” interjected Jacob Haining dourly. He was the senior member of the group, eighty-three years old. Short, silver-haired and rail-thin, his brown suit was the same color as the oak paneling.
“According Dr. Dee’s Codex,” said Francis Dee smugly, “the original school met at three AM so as to avoid the prying eyes of palace spies.”
Belleau took his chair, using the special crossbars to push himself up into its elevated seat. “As I recall, John Dee never received his doctorate.”
Dee, an astronomer in his sixties with a moon face and eyes that blinked nervously from behind the round lenses of spectacles, said irritably, “My ancestor was a founding member of the school, nevertheless.”
Belleau only smiled superciliously. He knew the man spoke the truth, but his habit of exaggerating John Dee’s influence during the formation of the School of Night never failed to annoy him. As it was, Belleau resented how his own great-great-grandfather owed his pre-eminent position in the School to Dee’s skills as an Elizabethan era cryptographer.
Conceived by Sir Walter Raleigh, the original cabal of scholars secretly studied science, philosophy, and religion, and all were suspected of being atheists. Atheism in the court of Queen Elizabeth was a charge nearly the equivalent of treason, since the monarch was the head of the church, and to denounce the church was to be against the monarch.
However, inasmuch as atheism was also a synonym for anarchy, that was a charge frequently brought against anyone who was the slightest bit religiously and politically troublesome. Guy Fawkes was a member of the earliest incarnation of the school, or more accurately, a pawn.
The School of Night was not particularly unique. It was but one of many secret societies that sprang up in Europe in the tumultuous period between the reigns of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I. Religious and alchemical cults arose among the nobility, convened in the shadows to evade ecclesiastical inquisitors.
By its very nature, the School of Night was heretical, working toward a rationalist view of society and human destiny free of biblical influence. It traced the roots of its progenitors to the so-called mystery schools of ancient Egypt, which allegedly passed on great secrets about creation and the earliest civilizations, and through symbolism and allegory taught lost mathematical techniques, as well as advanced science and philosophy. Although wielding a degree of covert influence in the pursuit of scientific thought over the last century, the school had existed primarily to keep a single discovery hidden.
In its present incarnation, the School of Night wasn’t a large organization, nor was there any reason for it to be. It had a four hundred year-old legacy preserved from generation to generation, although Belleau was concerned about passing on the torch to unworthy hands. Although the membership rules excluded females, he had suggested more than once than the School modify its stringent entrance requirements. The sexism was one of the carryovers from the original founders, none of whom could have been accused of holding enlightened views about the equality of women, particularly Raleigh.
Belleau felt positive Honoré Roxton would make an exemplary member, but none of his colleagues shared his enthusiasm. Therefore, he had no intention of giving them a choice in the matter.
“I’m getting a wee too old for these late hours myself,” complained Gregor McArdle in his guttural Scots brogue. A big, rawboned man in his mid-50s, a red spade beard bristled at his chin.
“It’s only one night a month,” retorted Haining peevishly.
“Yes, but you’re a bachelor. You try to explaining to a wife why your lodge holds regular meetings at three o’ clock in the bloody morning. The looks I get at the breakfast table—” McArdle shook his head in frustration.
Belleau rapped the knob of his walking stick on the table edge. “Then let us convene the meeting, get our business out of the way and you can go back to bed and to your wife.”
“What precisely is our business again?” Haining demanded, his nasal, strident voice punching painfully against Belleau’s eardrums.
“The Tamtungs…or to be specific, the main island so quaintly rechristened Cryptozoica by Howard Flitcroft’s public relations firm.”
“There is news?” asked Dee.
“Excellent news, in fact. My offer to buy the interests held by Bai Suzhen has been tacitly accepted.”
Haining’s wrinkled face screwed up as if he smelled or tasted something foul.
“Words cannot express my disgust at our dealin
gs with a criminal organization…an Oriental one at that. Sir Walter is no doubt revolving madly inside his crypt.”
Belleau ignored the comment. “Through our intermediaries in the States, Flitcroft has been convinced to finance our film project in the hopes of recouping his investment losses. It took several months of persuasion, but he finally saw the wisdom in the proposition.”
Belleau paused, chuckled, and added, “Of course, the stipulation is that we will have ultimate approval over the final edit.”
McArdle shook his head. “I understand your worry about leaving the Tamtungs unsecured, but all these efforts, all this subterfuge and money we’re pumping into the project…well, it’s tantamount to trying to bribe the genie to return to the lamp, isn’t it? The truth is bound to get out…even what happened to poor Dr. Perry all those years ago.”
“I agree,” said Wadley. “We were able to contain the problem over the last hundred years, but if we allow a film crew in there, especially into the interior—”
“—The whole point is that the truth of the place will indeed be known,” broke in Belleau impatiently. “But we will control the degree of truth that is disseminated and to do that, we must have the complete cooperation of everyone involved. That’s why I have taken the liberty of contacting Dr. Roxton.”
Dee cocked his head in puzzlement. “Honoré Roxton? What does she have to with this?”
Belleau smiled at the man patronizingly. “Honoré is one of the best-known paleontologists in the world. She will be the voice and the figure of final authority regarding the ‘truth’ of Cryptozoica.” He crooked his index fingers to indicate quotation marks. “She will essentially be the star of the television program…or if all goes according to plan, the television series.”
Haining spoke up in a sharp shout of outrage. “Then she will share in the secret. She will have to be told about the Prima Materia!”
Belleau nodded. “Exactly.”
“She’ll never believe you,” argued Wadley. “She would have to be shown the sample and the lost journal of the Beagle. In which case, she might as well be accorded full membership of the school
“Exactly.” said Belleau again, this time with a smug smile.
The four men stared at him, shocked into speechlessness. Finally, Dee ventured, “My dear fellow, as much as we respect Dr. Roxton, she’s still a woman. It’s just not done.”
Placing his hands flat on the tabletop, Belleau surveyed the men seated around him with a challenging stare. In a low voice, heavy with conviction, he said, “Even after all of these years, you still do not understand. As of 1836, we of the School of Night were no longer scholars or intellectuals engaged in the pursuit of studying and compiling esoterica. We became caretakers, guardians of the secret of creation, of the very source of all life on Earth. As such, we may very well become the saviors of all life when the inevitable next mass extinction becomes a reality, instead of sensationalistic fodder for talk television or cheap science periodicals.
“Our group must exert complete control over the resources of the island by any means that are expedient, even if those measures include entering into business arrangements with Asian criminal organizations, deceiving American millionaires, discrediting and silencing witnesses or even granting a woman membership in our sacrosanct order.”
The last two words were spoken with undisguised sarcasm.
Haining bristled at Belleau’s tone. “You spoke of our traditions earlier…be mindful of them now!”
“I can be mindful of the spirit of our traditions without adhering to the substance of them. We have kept many centuries worth of knowledge hidden from traditional science, have we not?”
With the silver ferrule of his walking stick, Belleau pointed to the bookshelves, moving it from left to right. “There we have forty-two sacred writings by Hermes Trismegistus, his so-called Emerald Tablets that encapsulate all the training of ancient Egyptian priests, rescued from temple of Neith by students of Plato…there are the alchemical tomes of Henry Cornelius Agrippa and the damned texts of Giordano Bruno, smuggled from his home on the very day he was burnt at the stake in Rome as a heretic.
“There are the notations of Paracelsus regarding the Philosopher’s Stone, the Enochnian alphabet as translated by John Dee and the formula of the elixir vitae concocted by the Comte de Saint-Germain, and much, much more.”
He jabbed the tip of his cane at Haining like an accusing finger. “All of those men whose writings we have in our possession postulated the existence of Prima Materia, the primitive formless base of all organic matter. But due only to the foresight of my great-great-grandfather, the School of Night has had an actual sample of it in our possession for nearly two centuries.”
“Yes, we’re all aware of Jacque Belleau’s contribution,” said McArdle impatiently. “You’ve reminded us of it often enough over the last twenty-five years.”
Francis Dee sniffed. “Belleau only acted upon my ancestor’s code-breaking discoveries. It could have been any scholar of the School.”
Belleau ignored the jibe. “I want the sample and the journal of the Beagle. If I’m to convince Honoré Roxton of the importance of our undertaking, I will need proof, visual aids at the very least.”
Haining stared at him with incredulous eyes. “Do you mean to remove them from our hall?”
“Why not? We wouldn’t even have a hall or the support of the museum if not for my influence.”
“But if they should be lost or stolen—” Wadley broke off, unable to utter the awful implications.
Belleau grinned. “Oh, pooh. At this point, they serve no real purpose except as artifacts, trophies in our collection, two more items hidden from public eyes in our private repository.”
Frowning, McArdle said, “We have a file containing photographs of the life-forms on Cryptozoica, taken at the blind in the early 1900s...the ones shown to Doyle. That should suffice to convince her.”
“She will reject them as fakes, Photoshop forgeries. No, Honoré Roxton will require proof a bit more substantial.”
The four men exchanged questioning glances. After a long, awkward silence, Haining turned toward Belleau. “I am opposed to this, but we need no further dissension. You may have what you request, but their safety is solely your responsibility. Do you accept that?”
Belleau shrugged. “Of course.”
Haining nodded in McArdle’s direction. “Gregor, you’re the most able-bodied among us. If you would be so kind—”
Not bothering to swallow his sigh of aggravation, McArdle rose and strode across the room to the library ladder. Belleau watched him wheel it over to the shelf to the right of Darwin’s bust. He couldn’t help but smile in triumph.
Noticing the smile, Dee said bitterly, “You’re an ambitious man, Aubrey, but usually your ambitions coincide with the interests of the school. I’m not sure of your motives this time...particularly since you brokered the deal between Maxiterm Pharmaceuticals and that ridiculous ecotourism scheme of Flitcroft. Am I correct in assuming the company still holds you responsible for their losses?”
Belleau’s face feigned hurt feelings. “You wound me, Francis. I don’t inquire as to the source of your disposable income or how your gambling debts are always paid.”
Wadley said quietly, “I’m glad you find such entertainment in this, Aubrey. I, for one suspect we’re making a tragic mistake.”
“As do I,” Haining said in his reedy voice. His eyes glinted with malicious amusement. “We’ve certainly made them before in regards to the Tamtungs. But assuming there is such a thing as a moral balance in the universe, the consequences of this mistake will be restricted to falling upon your head alone.”
Belleau did not respond. He was barely able to keep himself from spitting at the old man. The School of Night was composed of sterile intellectuals, doddering old pedants. Despite all of their knowledge and staggeringly high IQs, none of them had accepted the fact that morality was relative, only a variable, not an absolute.
Grunting with effort, McArdle tugged a dark green metal case from the top shelf, two feet long by two wide. The lid was secured by a clasp and a small padlock. Hugging the case to his chest, the bearded man slowly climbed down the ladder, the flat rungs creaking beneath his weight. He carried it over to the table and with an almost reverent care, laid down the case before Belleau.
Fingers trembling, he lifted his stickpin and inserted the eye-within-the-pyramid insignia into the base of the padlock. He twisted it to the right and for a long moment of frustration and fright, it did not turn. Then, with a faint click, the lock popped open.
Slowly, he raised the lid, aware of his colleagues craning their necks to see within, even though all of them were familiar with the contents. With both hands, Belleau lifted out a slim, leather-bound book, the dark front cover bearing no title or markings of any kind. He flipped aside the cover. Affixed to the underside by a metal clamp was a glass vial four inches long and no thicker than his middle finger. Soldered metal and wax served as a seal.
When Belleau plucked the tube from the clamp, both Haining and McArdle drew in sharp, apprehensive breaths. A kind of sobbing, crooning moan came from Wadley’s lips. Revolving the vial between thumb and forefinger, he held it up to the light.
A grayish-green gel half-filled the glass tube. Belleau tilted it to the right, then to the left. The thick, semi-liquid substance oozed to and fro. Tiny bubble-laced streaks formed within it, little jeweled patterns that looked almost pretty.
